


Blood-stained

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Oneshot, Orlo being cute, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: Prompt: Orlo comes back from the front, as battered mentally as physically. He rushes to the reader's side.
Relationships: Count Orlo / F!Reader, Count Orlo / Reader, Count Orlo / you
Kudos: 12





	Blood-stained

You had to bite back tears as Orlo limped from the carriage, greeting the servants with a wince, handing over a blood-stained burlap sack.

His reputation would be tarnished by your rushing to his side, still clad in a nightgown as the early morning sun illuminated the extravagant architecture of the palace, and you were instead forced to watch his slow journey inside.

He was at your door in moments, and you felt a rush of satisfaction that - in his moment of need - Orlo had run to your side. You knew you would do the same to him.

Any happiness you felt at this return was quickly overcome by the realisation that he was, put simply, not okay.

His face was ashen, both sleep deprived and haunted, a shake in his hands as he reached for you. The guards closed the doors silently, a distinct sombreness being trapped in the space with you as you were enclosed with Orlo.

Your voice shook as you greeted him.

“Orlo, are you... okay?”

With a jolt at your words, he broke down in tears. You reached to pull him close, standing next to the closed doors of your rooms and barely breathing from the shock of Orlo’s violent sobs. He wasn’t simply sad, he was almost wailing, his face screwed up and his fingers digging into your upper arms painfully tight as he held you. Your friendship was not always the most tactile, but you knew even this was incredible intimacy for Orlo, and you were desperate to be there for him.

As he struggled to speak, you shushed him.

“Everything is okay,” you cooed, “take your time. You are alright.”

“I- I killed a man.”

Suddenly you dropped your grip on him in shock, feeling Orlo tense up in response. As you drew him back closer to you, you fought for breath.

“Oh, god. You... what?”

You had been told he’d been in a carriage crash. Peter had rather fondly boasted of his advisor killing a Swede, far too much pride in his tone considering how much the man seemed to hate Orlo. But you hadn’t imagined the physical act of Orlo killing someone. The gory details, the emotional fallout...

More than anything, you felt bad for him.

These things happened, certainly within the court, let alone nearer the front lines. But not to Orlo.

As Orlo’s crying grew more hysterical, you noticed the injuries. Blood coated his face, mixing with grime and no doubt causing dirt to enter the open cuts he had sustained. His nose seemed bruised, his limp causing him to lean into you.

Most of all...

“You are exhausted, Orlo,” you sighed.

“I will never be able to sleep again.“

You felt a wave of worry for him, as you realised the severity of his guilt. In some part, his adrenaline and sleeplessness would be making him hysterical. And yet you knew the truth of his words. He could be a drama queen, certainly. But he was not a man who would recover lightly from taking a life.

You changed the subject, hoping perhaps some care would ground him. He was so used to being served, but never cared for by someone who was there by choice. With gentle hands you pried him away from you, and the morose look of rejection in his eyes was enough to wrench your ribs apart and tug on your heart. 

“I need to clean these,” you explained, fingers following your eyeline as you tenderly felt around his wounds.

Your fingers came away adorned with his dried blood, and you winced.

“Sit by the fire.”

He told you the whole story robotically as you dabbed blood and grime off him. He spoke as if he was outside his body, a stranger to the events he described, even as you could tell he blamed himself.

For the weakness to not stab the Swede. For the weakness _to_ stab the Swede. He saw no victory in saving his fellow Russians, only guilt for the faults he saw in himself. It broke your heart, to hear the distain with which he described what he had done. Yet in the descriptions of the gratefulness of the soldiers he had found, you saw a little pride.

“You did what you had to,” you placated. “Yet you took no pleasure in it. That makes you a stronger man than most.”

His eyes filled with tears.

The last of Orlo’s wounds were still unbandaged, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to wrap them. Not before you had pulled him close to you, and hugged him tightly. Desperation for him to be okay was all you could think of, as you pulled his hair back from his face. 

“I am so glad you did it. You got back safe, that is all I can ask for,” you told him shakily. Before you could overthink it, you continued. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I was so afraid. It hurts me, to think of how you must be hurting.”

Orlo looked shocked, the awe in his dark brown eyes a stark contrast to the graze marks and bruising on his face. 

“You mean that?”

Sometimes his insecurity took you by surprise. You had never seen what he could possibly feel insecure about - a beautiful man with a brilliant mind and kind heart. You had told him as much, often, if behind the guise of friendship. 

You knew he never believed you.

“Of course.”

“In which case...”

Orlo winced as he cleared his throat, looking for anywhere except your face. Suddenly he straightened up, his posture holding a confidence you had never seen in him before. His fingers closed around your wrist, and you squealed in surprise as he pulled you to sit on his lap.

“I vowed to myself, as I feared a bear would eat me or a Swede would stab me, that if I should survive the whole ordeal...”

He seemed to lose momentum for a second, and you were still astounded by being perched on his lap - his injuries be damned. 

“You would do what?” You prompted.

“Tell you how I feel.”


End file.
